A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN 


A  NOVEL 


»T 


RICHARD   WAGNER 


TRANSLATED  BT 

OTTO  W.  WEYER 


CHICAGO 
THE  OPEN  COURT  PUBLISHING  CO. 

LONDON  AGENTS 

Kesan  Paul.  Trench.  Trubiicr  &•  Co..  Lid. 
J909 


Translation  Copyriqhtbd  by 

THE  OPEN  COURT  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1896 


PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE. 


RICHARD  WAGNER,  the  famous  musical  composer,  experi- 
enced perhaps  the  hardest  time  of  his  life  in  Paris.  He  left 
Riga,  where  he  had  been  engaged  as  leader  at  a  theatre  in  the  year 
1839,  and  taking  passage  on  board  a  sailing  vessel  reached  Bou- 
logne-sur-mer  after  an  adventurous  sea-voyage,  which  suggested 
to  him  the  idea  of  composing  "The  Flying  Dutchman." 

In  Boulogne-sur-mer  Wagner  met  Meyerbeer,  who  promised 
to  do  all  he  could  for  him  in  Paris. 

Without  any  other  recommendation  than  that  of  Meyerbeer, 
Wagner  entered  Paris,  with  little  money  but  great  expectations. 
On  the  strength  of  Meyerbeer's  recommendation  the  director  of 
the  Theatre  de  la  Renaissance  promised  to  put  on  the  stage  one  of 
Wagner's  compositions,  which  was  being  translated  by  M.  Dumer- 
san.  But  before  the  translation  was  completed  the  Theatre  de  la 
Renaissance  was  bankrupt,  and  Richard  Wagner  was  that  much 
poorer  in  his  hopes. 

There  were  a  number  of  famous  musicians  in  Paris — Habe- 
neck,  Halevy,  and  others — but  none  of  them  attracted  Wagner, 
who  had  no  sympathy  for  artists  whose  sole  object  was  to  be 
counted  among  the  lions  of  musical  composition,  and  then  to  write 
operas  for  the  purpose  of  making  as  much  money  as  possible.  He 
thought  most  of  Berlioz,  in  spite  of  his  repulsive  character,  be- 
cause he  at  least  did  not  compose  for  the  sake  of  money  ;  but 
Wagner  never  sought  the  friendship  of  Berlioz,  of  whom  he  said 
that  "  he  lacked  the  genuine  sense  of  art." 


iv  publisher's  preface. 

Finding  no  sympathetic  friends  among  musicians,  Wagner  fre- 
quented the  circles  of  authors,  painters,  and  scholars.  And  his  dis- 
gust with  the  lack  of  idealism  in  the  musical  world  of  Paris, 
together  with  his  straitened  circumstances,  which  sometimes  bor- 
dered on  actual  destitution,  made  his  sojourn  in  Paris  very 
gloomy  ;  but  his  sorry  experience  only  served  to  purify  his  love  for 
music,  and  the  mere  sight  of  the  public  which  took  delight  in  the 
frivolous  melodies  of  the  Italian  operas  made  him  think  more  seri- 
ously about  the  high  purpose  of  genuine  music.  He  became  more 
and  more  conscious  of  his  ideals,  and  when  requested  by  M. 
Schlesinger  to  write  for  the  Gazette  Musicale  he  wrote  several  ar- 
ticles, among  which  the  most  beautiful  is  his  novelette,  A  Pilgrim- 
age to  Beethoven. 

The  success  of  this  first  literary  attempt  of  "Wagner  induced 
nim  to  write  several  other  articles  on  German  music,  including 
' '  The  Virtuosi  and  the  Artists, "  ' '  The  Artist  and  the  Public, "  being 
a  talk  on  music  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue,  "A  Happy  Evening,' 
and  ' '  Rossini's  Stabat  Mater. "  Another  sketch,  entitled  An  End  in 
Paris,  which  was  intended  to  be  a  continuation  of  his  novelette, 
A  Pilgrimage  to  Beethoven,  is  written  in  a  profoundly  melancholy 
mood,  and  seems  to  convey  the  lesson  of  Schopenhauer's  pessim- 
ism that  a  genius  is  not  fit  to  live  in  this  miserable  world,  but  must 
die  of  starvation. 

In  the  first  volume  of  his  collected  works  Wagner  published 
all  the  literary  essays  on  music  written  at  that  time,  as  the  Posthu- 
mous Papers  of  the  hero  of  his  first  novelette.  In  none  of  the  es- 
says, however,  did  Wagner  reach  the  same  height  of  poetic  inspi- 
ration as  in  his  Pilgrimage  to  Beethoven.  Most  of  them  are  fair 
articles  on  musical  subjects ;  the  one  which  discusses  Rossini's 
Stabat  Mate}'  is  a  vigorous  and  well-written,  although  decidedly 
unjust,  accusation  of  a  rival.  They  all  may  claim  to  be  above 
mediocrity  and  all  are  worth  reading;  but  the  main  interest  we 
can  take  in  them  consists  in  the  fact  that  they  were  written  by 
a  great  composer. 


PUBLISHER  S   PREFACE.  V 

The  sketch,  "A  Happy  Evening,"  contains  several  beautiful 

passages  on  music  which  are  worth  quoting.     Wagner  criticises 

those  musical  critics  who  confound  the  languages  of  music  and  of 

poetry,  trying,  for  instance,  to  interpret  Beethoven's  ' '  Symphony 

in  A  sharp "  as  a  peasant  marriage.    "  Music,"  Wagner  says,  "ex- 

"  presses  that  which  is  eternal,  infinite,  and  ideal.     Music  does  not 

"express  the  passion,  the  love,  the  yearning  of  this  or  that  indi- 

"vidual,  in  this  or  that  situation.     It  expresses  passion,  love,  and 

"  yearning  themselves,   and,  indeed,  in  an  infinitely  manifold  va- 

•'  riety  of  motives,  whose  exclusive  peculiarity  is  conditioned  in  the 

' '  nature  of  music,  and  is  foreign  and  inexpressible  in  any  other 

"kind  of  speech."     (Ges.   J^erke,  Vol.  I.  p.  183.) 

The  form  in  which  this  essay,  "A  Happy  Evening,"  is  dressed, 
is  that  of  a  dialogue  between  two  enthusiastic  musicians,  in  which 
one  of  them  says:  "Blessed  be  the  God  who  created  the  spring 
and  music."  {Jfnd.,  p.  173.)  Wagner  makes  one  of  them  sum 
up  the  gist  of  their  conversation  in  these  words,  which  are  the 
conclusion  of  that  "  happy  evening  "  :  "  Long  live  good  fortune  ; 
"  long  live  joy  ;  long  live  the  courage  that  animates  us  in  thestrug- 
"gle  with  our  fate  ;  long  live  the  victory  which  a  nobler  conscious- 
"  ness  gains  over  the  infamy  of  all  that  is  vulgar;  long  live  that 
"  love  which  requites  our  courage  ;  long  live  friendship  which  sup- 
"  ports  our  faith;  long  live  hope,  the  ally  of  our  presages;  long 
"live  the  day  ;  long  live  the  night  ;  a  greeting  to  the  sun  ;  a  greet- 
"ing  to  the  stars  ;  thrice  greeted  be  Music  and  her  high-priests ! 
'  Eternally  adored  and  worshipped  be  God,  the  God  of  joy  and 
"  of  happiness,  the  God  who  created  music.     Amen  !  " 

With  all  such  passages,  which  are  beautiful  in  themselves, 
these  various  essays  can  only  be  forced  into  a  unity  with  Wagner's 
novelette,  A  Pilgrimage  to  Beethoven,  and  this  is  true  most  of  all 
of  the  continuation  of  the  novelette.  An  End  in  Paris.  This  latter 
is  even  jarring.  While  the  little  tale,  A  Pilgrimage  to  Beethoven, 
reaches  the  highest  pitch  of  noble  enthusiasm  for  music,  in  which 
all  the  misery  of  this  world  appears  transfigured,  its  continuation, 


vi  publisher's  preface. 

An  End  in  Paris,  is  so  full  of  discord  that  all  beauty  of  the  ideal- 
ism of  art  is  drowned  in  the  sufferings  that  precede  the  terrible  act 
of  suicide.  The  two  sketches  have  been  written  in  two  different 
moods,  and  they  do  not  belong  together.  We  can  understand  how 
Richard  Wagner,  oppressed  with  cares  and  sorrows,  came  to  write 
the  tragic  tale,  An  End  in  Paris,  but  we  cannot  approve  of  spoiling 
the  first  novel,  A  Pilgrimage  to  Beethoven,  by  attaching  to  it  the 
ghastly  story  of  an  unsuccessful  genius,  who,  by  overestimating  his 
own  talents,  lives  in  a  fool's  paradise  and  becomes  at  last,  when 
starvation  stares  him  in  the  face,  a  prey  to  despair. 

A  most  beautiful  passage,  in  this  otherwise  terrible  story,  is 
unquestionably  the  dying  musician's  confession  of  faith  which  he 
expresses  in  his  last  will  as  follows  : 

'  I  believe  in  God,  Mozart,  and  Beethoven,  and  also  in  their 
"  disciples  and  apostles.  I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost  and  in  the 
"  truth  of  the  invisible  Art.  I  believe  that  Art  proceeds  from  God 
"  and  lives  in  the  hearts  of  all  enlightened  men  I  believe  that  who- 
"ever  has  once  revelled  in  the  lofty  enjoyments  of  this  high  Art 
"will  be  her  devotee  forever  and  can  never  deny  her  I  believe 
"that  all  can  become  blessed  through  Art,  and  that,  therefore, 
"  everybody  should  be  permitted  to  die  of  starvation  for  her  sake. 
"I  believe  that  I  shall  be  highly  beatified  through  death.  I  believe 
"  that  I  was  a  discord  on  earth  which  through  death  shall  be  glo- 
' '  riously  resolved  in  purity.  I  believe  in  a  last  judgment  which  will 
' '  condemn  terribly  all  those  who  have  dared  to  practise  usury  in  this 
"world  with  that  high  and  chaste  Art,  those  who  prostituted  and 
' '  dishonored  her  through  the  depravity  of  their  hearts  and  vile 
"greed  for  sensuality  !  I  believe  that  all  such  evil  doers  will  be 
"  condemned  to  listen  to  their  own  music  for  all  eternity.  Yet  I 
"  believe  that  the  faithful  disciples  of  this  high  Art  will  be  trans- 
"  figured,  clad  in  heavenly  garments  of  sunny  and  scented  melo- 
"dies,  and  will  be  united  with  the  divine  source  of  all  harmony 
"  forever  and  aye.     May  a  merciful  lot  fall  to  me  I     Amen." 

Having  extracted  from  Wagner's  essays  those  passages  which 


publisher's  preface.  vii 

we  deem  beautiful  and  most  expressive,  we  abstain  from  translat- 
ing and  publishing  the  story,  An  End  in  Paris,  because  we  are 
convinced  that  the  beauty  of  the  novelette,  A  Pilgrimage  to  Beet- 
hoven, can  only  be  spoiled  by  receiving  a  false  and  inappropriate 
setting.  In  letting  the  novelette  stand  by  itself,  as  it  was  first  con- 
ceived by  Richard  Wagner,  we  believe  that  we  restore  it  to  its  orig- 
inal beauty.  It  is  a  most  exquisite  gem  of  the  poetic  imagination 
of  a  great  composer,  and  deserves  to  be  widely  read  and  known  all 
over  the  world.  May  this  translation  make  it  popular  all  over  the 
English-speaking  world  and  help  the  spread  of  a  love  of  true  Ar* 
and  genuine  Music. 

Paul  Carus, 
Manager  of  the  Open  Court  Publishing  Co. 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 


O  INDIGENCE  !  thou  care-bringer !  protectress 
divine  of  the  German  musician  (unless  he  have 
reached  the  haven  of  director  at  some  court-theatre)! 
O,  carking  Indigence  !  as  I  ever  do,  so  let  me  now  in 
this  reminiscence  from  my  life  first  bring  dutiful  obei- 
sance to  thy  praise  and  honor !  Let  me  sing  of  thee, 
thou  steadfast  companion  of  my  life  !  Always  loyal, 
never  hast  thou  forsaken  me  !  With  a  strong  palm, 
thou  hast  warded  from  me  all  sudden  shocks  of  pro- 
pitious luck ;  and  ever  against  the  onerous  glances  of 
sunny  Fortuna  hast  thou  protected  me  !  With  an  im- 
penetrable veil  hast  thou  always  benignantly  hidden 
from  my  sight  the  vain  riches  of  this  world  !  Receive 
thou  all  my  gratitude  for  thine  indefatigable  constancy. 
But  if  it  may  be,  pray  do  thou  at  length  find  some 
other  foster-child  than  me.  For  indeed  I  should — if 
it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  curiosity — like  to  learn 
from  personal  experience,  what  manner  of  existence  I 
might  manage  to  lead  without  thee.  At  the  least — so 
I  beseech  thee — go  thou   and  plague  with  most  espe- 


2  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

cial  cunning  our  political  dreamers,  those  madmen, 
who  are  determined  in  spite  of  everything  to  unite  our 
dear  Germany  under  a  single  sceptre  :  For  then  there 
would  be  but  one  single  court-theatre,  and  hence  a 
place  for  but  one  single  Kapellmeister !  What  then 
would  become  of  all  my  hopes,  my  dear  ambitions, 
which  even  now  are  dim  before  my  eyes,  and,  I  dread, 
are  slowly  fading — even  now,  when  I  can  count  so 
many  German  court-theatres.  But  ah  !  I  see  that  I 
grow  impious.  Forgive,  O  thou  divine  protectress, 
the  blasphemous  wish  which  just  escaped  me.  'Twas 
but  momentary ;  for  thou  seest  within  my  heart,  and 
well  thou  knowest  how  wholly  thine  I  am,  and  ever 
shall  be,  though  it  came  to  pass  that  there  were  a  thou- 
sand court-theatres  in  Germany  !     Amen  ! 

I  never  undertake  a  thing,  without  first  offering  up 
this  daily  prayer,  and  so  I  breathe  it  here  before  I  be- 
gin the  story  of  my  pilgrimage  to  Beethoven. 

But  to  provide  for  the  possibility  that  this  impor- 
tant autobiographical  record  may  find  publication 
after  my  demise,  I  consider  it  necessary  to  tell  who  I 
am.  Else  much  therein  might  appear  obscure.  Let 
my  executors  and  the  world,  therefore,  know  these 
things: 

My  native  place  is  a  city  of  fair  size  in  Central 
Germany.  I  am  not  quite  certain  what  the  plans  of 
my  people  for  my  future  had  been.  All  that  I  recall  is, 
that  one  evening  I  heard  one  of  Beethoven's  sympho- 
nies for  the  first  time ;  that  I  was  taken  with  fever  in 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  3 

consequence,  was  ill  for  some  time,  and,  when  I  had 
recovered,  had  become  a  musician. 

I  suppose  it  is  because  of  this  circumstance  that 
although  I  have  since  then  learned  to  know  and  ap- 
preciate much  other  music  that  is  beautiful,  I  have, 
foremost,  loved,  and  honored,  and  adored  Beethoven. 
I  knew  no  greater  delight  than  that  of  yielding  myself 
wholly  up  to  him, — of  allowing  myself  to  sink,  as  it 
were,  away  into  the  depths  of  his  genius,  until  I  should 
finally  imagine  that  I  was  a  part  thereof ;  and  even  as 
such  a  tiny  part  I  would  begin  to  esteem  myself,  have 
more  elevated  conceptions  and  opinions,  and,  in  a 
word,  to  be  what  the  wiseacres  usually  call  a  simple- 
ton. This  delusion  was  of  a  very  gentle  sort,  and  it 
did  no  harm  to  any  one.  The  daily  bread  which  I 
ate  during  this  period  of  my  life  was  very  dry,  my 
wine  very  thin  and  watery ;  for  the  giving  of  music- 
lessons  does  not  earn  much  of  an  income  where  I  live, 
my  dear  executors  and  public  ! 

I  had  been  living  thus  in  my  little  garret  for  some 
time  when  suddenly,  one  day,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
the  man  whose  creations  I  adored  above  everything 
else,  was  still  living.  I  could  not  understand  how  it 
was  that  I  had  not  thought  of  this  before.  It  had 
never  suggested  itself  to  me  as  possible  that  Beet- 
hoven could  actually  stand  before  one,  that  he  could 
eat  and  breathe  like  an  ordinary  mortal.  And  here 
he  was,  living  in  Vienna;  and  he,  too,  was  a  poor 
German  musician  like  myself! 


4  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

From  that  instant  my  peace  of  mind  was  gone. 
All  my  thoughts  turned  into  the  one  wish,  to  see  Beet- 
hoven! Never  Mussulman  more  devoutly  yearned  to 
make  the  pilgrimage  to  the  grave  of  his  prophet,  than 
I  to  the  humble  chamber  where  Beethoven  dwelt. 

But  how  should  I  manage  to  carry  out  such  a  de- 
sign? The  journey  to  Vienna  was  a  long  one,  and 
money  was  required  to  make  it ;  whilst  I,  poor  wretch, 
was  hardly  earning  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether. It  was  painfully  evident  that  I  should  have 
to  devise  some  extraordinary  measures,  if  I  hoped  to 
get  the  necessary  travelling-money  together.  I  had 
composed  several  sonatas  for  the  piano,  in  the  mas- 
ter's style ;  these  I  carried  to  a  publisher.  But  the  man 
curtly  gave  me  to  understand  that  I  was  a  simpleton 
with  my  sonatas.  He  advised  me,  that,  if  I  expected 
in  time  to  earn  a  few  dollars  with  compositions  of  this 
kind,  I  should  first  undertake  to  make  something  of  a 
reputation  with  galops  and  potpourris.  I  shuddered 
at  the  thought.  But  my  longing  to  see  Beethoven 
conquered.  I  composed  galops  and  potpourris.  But 
during  all  this  time,  from  very  shame,  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  even  so  much  as  look  at  m}'  Beet- 
hoven ;  I  shrank  in  horror  from  the  desecration. 

Unfortunately,  however,  I  failed  at  first  to  get  any 
compensation  at  all  for  these  sacrifices  of  innocence. 
For  although  he  published  them,  my  publisher  said  he 
could  not  pay  me  for  them  until  I  had  secured  some- 
what of  a  name.     Again  I  shuddered,  I  succumbed  to 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  5 

despair.  But  despair  yielded  some  excellent  galops. 
I  really  got  some  money  for  them ;  and  at  length  the 
time  came  when  I  believed  I  had  amassed  enough  to 
execute  my  plans.  But  in  the  meantime  two  years 
had  passed  away ;  and  during  all  that  time  I  was  in 
mortal  dread  lest  Beethoven  might  die  before  I  had 
achieved  a  name  with  my  galops  and  potpourris. 
Thank  heavens  !  he  survived  the  grandeur  of  my  fame. 
Sainted  Beethoven  !  forgive  me  for  this  fame ;  for  I 
sought  and  won  it  that  I  might  see  you. 

Ah,  what  genuine  ecstasy  !  I  had  attained  my  goal ! 
Who  in  the  wide  world  happier  than  I  !  Now,  at  last, 
I  could  throw  my  bundle  over  my  shoulder  and  start 
on  my  pilgrimage  to  Beethoven.  I  felt  a  holy  thrill 
as  I  marched  through  the  city-gates  and  directed  my 
course  to  the  South.  Only  too  gladly  would  I  have 
taken  a  seat  in  one  of  the  stage-coaches.  Not  because 
I  dreaded  the  toil  of  foot-travel  (for  what  tribulations 
would  I  not  eagerly  have  borne  for  this  dear  object!), 
but  because  then  I  should  the  sooner  have  gotten  to 
Beethoven.  Alas !  I  had  as  yet  accomplished  too  little 
for  my  celebrity  as  a  galop-composer  to  be  able  to  pay 
the  costly  fare.  Accordingly,  I  resolutely  faced  every 
hardship,  deeming  myself  lucky  since  they  terminated 
in  bringing  me  to  Beethoven.  O,  how  I  raved  !  and 
dreamed  !  Never  lover  knew  greater  bliss,  returning 
after  a  long  separation  to  the  love  of  his  youth. 

After  a  time  I  entered  the  beautiful  land  of  Bohe- 
mia, the  home  of  the  harp-players  and  wandering  sin- 


b  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

gers.  In  one  little  town  I  ran  across  a  company  of 
these  nomad  musicians.  They  formed  a  little  orches- 
tra, made  up  of  a  bass,  two  violins,  two  horns,  a  cla- 
rinet, and  a  flute.  There  were  three  women  with 
them  ;  one  was  a  harp-player  ;  the  other  two  were 
singers  and  had  fine  voices.  They  played  dances  and 
sang  folk-songs;  people  gave  them  money,  and  they 
journeyed  on.  Later  I  chanced  upon  them  again  in 
a  pretty  and  shady  nook,  just  off  the  highway.  They 
were  bivouacking  and  having  their  dinner.  I  joined 
them,  telling  them  that  I,  too,  was  a  musician.  We 
were  soon  on  good  terms.  Since  they  played  dances, 
I  asked  them,  rather  timidly,  if  they  had  ever  yet 
played  any  of  my  galops.  The  splendid  fellows  !  they 
had  never  heard  of  my  galops  !  What  a  world  of  relief 
this  knowledge  afforded  me  ! 

Then  I  asked  if  they  did  not  play  some  other  music 
besides  dance-music. 

"To  be  sure  we  do!"  they  answered,  "but  for 
ourselves  only,  not  for  the  people  who  consider  them- 
selves above  us." 

They  got  out  their  music.  I  remarked  among  it 
the  grand  septette  of  Beethoven ;  surprised  I  asked 
them  if  they  played  that,  too. 

"And  why  not,  pray  ?"  the  oldest  of  them  rejoined. 
"Joseph's  hand  is  disabled  so  that  he  cannot  play  the 
second  violin ;  or  we  should  take  great  pleasure  in 
playing  it  for  you  right  now." 

Enraptured,  I  seized  Joseph's  violin  and  promised 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN,  7 

to  the  best  of  my  ability  to  supply  his  place ;  and  we 
began  the  septette. 

What  a  delightful  experience  !  Here,  upon  a  Bo- 
hemian highway,  beneath  the  open  heaven,  to  hear 
Beethoven's  septette  played  by  common  strolling  mu- 
sicians, with  a  purity,  a  precision,  and  a  depth  of  sen- 
timent, as  seldom  by  masterful  virtuosi!  Great  Beet- 
hoven !  we  brought  thee  a  worthy  offering  ! 

We  were  right  in  the  midst  of  the  finale,  when — 
the  road  here  taking  a  winding  course  up  the  hill — an 
elegant  travelling  coach  noiselessly  approached  and 
drew  up  close  by  us.  A  remarkably  tall  and  remark- 
ably blond  young  man  lay  extended  at  full  length 
within  the  wagon,  barkened  with  considerable  atten- 
tiveness  to  our  music,  and  then,  drawing  a  note-book 
from  his  pocket,  jotted  down  something  therein.  Then, 
after  suffering  a  gold  piece  to  drop  from  the  wagon. 
he  gave  orders  to  his  people  to  drive  on,  addressing 
them  briefly  in  English,  from  which  I  knew  that  he 
must  be  an  Englishman. 

The  interruption  spoiled  our  musical  mood,  though 
it  occurred  fortunately  after  we  had  finished  the  sep- 
tette. With  emotion  I  embraced  my  friends  and 
wished  to  accompany  them.  But  they  told  me  their 
course  turned  off  from  the  main  road  at  this  point  and 
took  them  across  fields  to  their  native  village  to  which 
they  were  returning  on  one  of  their  periodical  visits. 
Had  it  not  been  that  Beethoven  himself  was  waiting 
for  me,   I   certainly   should    have   gone    thither  with 


8  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

them,  too.  As  it  was,  we  parted,  uttering  our  fare- 
wells with  mutual  feeling.  I  remembered,  later  on, 
that  no  one  had  picked  up  the  Englishman's  gold- 
piece. 

At  the  next  inn, — where  I  turned  in  to  rest  my 
weary  limbs, — I  found  the  Englishman,  seated  at  a 
good  meal.  He  examined  me  attentively  for  a  time, 
and  at  length  addressed  me  in  passable  German : 

"Where  are  your  companions  ?" 

"Gone  home,"  I  said. 

"Get  out  your  violin  and  play  something  more," 
he  continued.      "  Here's  money." 

I  was  offended.  I  said  curtly  that  I  did  not  play 
for  money,  had  furthermore  no  violin,  and  explained 
to  him  briefly  how  it  was  that  I  had  happened  to  be 
in  the  company  of  the  musicians; 

"They  were  good  players,"  observed  tiic:  English- 
man. "And  the  symphony  of  Beethoven  was  very 
good,  too." 

I  was  struck  with  this  remark.  I  asked  him  if  he 
did  anything  in  the  way  of  music  himself. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  play  the  flute  twice  a  week. 
Thursdays  I  blow  the  bugle.  And  Sundays  I  com- 
pose." 

That  was  certainly  a  great  deal,  and  I  marvelled. 
I  had  never  in  all  my  life  heard  of  strolling  English 
musicians.  I  reasoned,  therefore,  that  they  must  be 
in  very  easy  circumstances,  if  they  did   their  strolling 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  9 

in  such  handsome  equipages. — I  asked  him  if  he  was 
a  musician  by  profession. 

For  some  time  I  got  no  reply.  Finally,  drawling 
slowly,  he  exerted  himself  to  say  that  he  had  much 
money. 

I  saw  my  error,  for  evidently  the  question  had  of- 
fended him.  Mortified,  I  became  silent,  and  went  on 
eating  my  modest  meal. 

The  Englishman,  after  another  long  scrutiny  of 
my  person,  began  again  : 

"Do  you  know  Beethoven  ?"  he  asked. 

I  replied  that  I  had  never  as  yet  been  at  Vienna, 
that  I  was  just  then  on  my  way  thither,  and  that  my 
object  in  going  there  was  to  satisfy  the  dearest  wish  I 
had,  that  of  seeing  the  adored  master. 

"Wh  -  yc     ."rom  ?"  he  asked. 

"From  L.  .  .  ." 
"That's  but  a  short  distance  off.   I  come  from  Eng- 
land, and  my  object,  too,  is  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  Beethoven.     We  will  both  make  his  acquaintance. 
He  is  a  very  celebrated  composer." 

"What  a  wonderful  coincidence,"  I  thought  to 
myself.  What  very  different  kinds  of  folk  dost  thou 
not  attract,  sublime  master !  On  foot  and  in  wagon 
they  flock  to  thee.  My  Englishman  began  to  interest 
me ;  but  I  own  that  I  little  envied  him  his  fine  equi- 
page. My  toilsome  pilgrimage,  so  it  appeared  to  me, 
was  the  more  holy  and  devout  of  the  two ;  and  I  felt 
that  when  we  reached  our  goal,    mine   must  surely 


lO  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

bring  more  joy  to  me  than  his  to  him,  who  made  his 
progress  thither  in  pomp  and  pride. 

Just  then  the  postilion  blew  his  horn.  The  Eng- 
lishmen rode  away,  after  calling  to  me  that  he  should 
see  Beethoven  before  me. 

I  had  been  trudging  after  him  but  a  few  hours 
when  I  unexpectedly  came  upon  him  again.  It  was 
along  the  road.  One  of  his  wagon-wheels  had  broken 
down.  He  was  still  seated  within  the  wagon,  imper- 
turbably  tranquil,  his  servant  up  behind,  unheeding 
that  the  wagon  had  pitched  heavily  on  its  side.  I 
learned  that  they  were  waiting  for  the  postilion,  who 
had  hastened  to  a  village  lying  some  distance  away, 
to  fetch  a  smith.  They  had  been  waiting  a  long  while. 
And,  as  the  servant  spoke  English  only,  I  resolved  to 
go  myself  to  the  village  and  fetch  both  postilion  and 
smith.  Just  as  I  expected,  I  found  the  postilion  in 
the  tavern,  where  he  sat  at  liquor,  with  little  care  for 
the  Englishman.  But  I  soon  brought  him  and  the 
smith  back  to  the  wagon.  The  injury  was  repaired. 
The  Englishman  promised  to  remember  me  to  Beet- 
hoven and — rode  away. 

How  very  much  surprised  I  was,  on  the  next  day, 
to  overtake  him  on  the  highwaj-  again.  His  wheel 
was  all  right  this  time  ;  he  had  calmly  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  and  was  reading  in  a  book.  He 
seemed  to  feel  some  satisfaction  as  he  saw  me  come 
plodding  along  on  my  journey. 

<'I  have  been  waiting  here  a  great  many  hours," 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  I  I 

he  said.  "For  right  here  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had 
done  wrong  in  not  inviting  you  to  ride  with  me  to 
Beethoven.  Riding  is  much  better  than  walking. 
Come,  get  into  the  wagon." 

Again  I  was  surprised.  And  really,  for  a  moment, 
I  was  undecided  whether  to  accept  his  offer  or  not. 
But  quickly  I  recalled  the  vow  which  I  had  made  the 
day  before,  as  I  saw  the  Englishman  speed  away  in 
his  carriage.  I  had  vowed  absolutely  to  make  my  pil- 
grimage afoot.  I  now  declared  it  aloud.  With  that,  it 
was  the  Englishman's  turn  to  be  surprised  ;  he  could 
make  nothing  of  me.  He  repeated  his  offer,  adding 
again  that  he  had  been  waiting  a  good  many  hours  for 
me,  although  his  journey  had  already  been  very  greatly 
delayed  by  the  work  of  having  his  broken  wheel  more 
thoroughly  repaired  in  the  place  where  he  had  lain  the 
night  before.  I  remained  firm,  however,  and  he  rode, 
wondering,  away. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  secretly  begun  to  feel  an 
aversion  for  him.  For,  like  a  gloomy  premonition, 
the  thought  forced  itself  on  me  that  this  Englishman 
would  yet  cause  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  And  be- 
sides, both  his  admiration  of  Beethoven  and  his  in- 
tention to  form  the  acquaintance  of  the  maestro  looked 
more  like  a  rich  exquisite's  hobby,  than  the  deep  and 
keen  thirst  of  an  enthusiastic  soul.  Accordingly,  I 
chose  to  avoid  him,  that  my  devout  yearning  might 
not  be  unhallowed  by  any  communion  with  him. 

But,  as  if  my  destiny  were  determin*^d  to  admonish 


12  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

me  in  advance  of  the  fateful  companionship  I  would 
yet  come  to  with  this  gentleman,  I  met  him  still  again 
in  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  stopping  in  front  of  a 
hotel, — waiting  for  me,  so  it  seemed.  For  he  sat  in 
the  forward  seat,  looking  down  the  road  in  my  direc- 
tion, whence  he  had  himself  come. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  have  again  been  waiting  many 
hours  for  you.   Will  you  ride  with  me  to  Beethoven  ?  " 

This  time  a  secret  horror  began  to  mingle  with  my 
surprise.  It  was  impossible  otherwise  to  explain  this 
strange  insistence  to  serve  me,  than  that  the  English- 
man, observing  my  increasing  aversion  for  him,  was 
determined  to  force  himself  upon  me,  for  the  purpose 
of  compassing  my  ruin.  With  unfeigned  impatience, 
I  again  refused  his  offer.  Contemptuously,  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Confound  it  !  I  don't  believe  you  think  so  very 
much  of  Beethoven.  I  shall  soon  see  him."  And 
away  he  flew  at  a  rapid  pace. 

As  it  turned  out,  I  did  not  see  this  insular  citizen 
again  during  the  still  very  considerable  part  remaining 
of  the  road  to  Vienna.  I  entered  the  streets  of  that 
city  at  last.  My  pilgrimage  was  ended.  With  what 
feelings  I  entered  this  Mecca  of  my  creed  !  All  the 
fatigues  of  my  long  and  toilsome  journey  were  forgot- 
ten. I  was  in  my  haven,  within  the  walls  which  en- 
closed Beethoven. 

My  emotion  was  too  deep  for  me  to  think  of  prose- 
cuting my  purpose  at  once.      I  did,  it  is  true,  imme- 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  I3 

diately  inquire  after  the  residence  of  Beethoven,  but 
it  was  merely  that  I  might  get  lodgings  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Almost  exactly  opposite  the  house  there 
was  a  hotel,  not  too  pretentious.  I  took  a  small  cham- 
ber in  the  fifth  story,  and  there  I  prepared  myself  for 
the  greatest  event  of  my  life,  a  call  on  Beethoven. 

When  I  had  rested  two  days,  and  fasted  and  prayed, 
without,  however,  bestowing  so  much  as  a  single  glance 
of  sight-seeing  on  Vienna,  I  summoned  courage,  went 
forth  from  the  hotel  and  across  the  street  to  the  fa- 
mous house.  I  was  told  that  Beethoven  was  not  at 
home.  Secretly,  I  was  glad  to  hear  it,  for  it  afforded 
me  time  to  collect  myself  again.  But  when  I  had  re- 
ceived the  same  reply  four  more  times  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  each  time  in  a  certain  increasing  asperity 
of  tone,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  this  was  an  unlucky 
day,  and  morosely  abandoned  my  call  for  that  day. 

As  I  was  returning  to  the  hotel,  lo!  my  Englishman, 
up  on  the  first  floor,  nodded  pleasantly  down  to  me. 

"Have  you  seen  Beethoven?"  he  called  out. 

"Not  yet;  he  wasn't  in,"  I  replied,  surprised  at 
meeting  him  again. 

He  came  out  to  meet  me  in  the  stairway  and 
pressed  me,  with  a  marked  degree  of  friendliness,  to 
enter  his  apartment. 

"  I  saw  you  go  five  times  to-day  to  Beethoven's 
house.  I  have  now  been  here  many  days,  and  have 
taken  quarters  in  this  odious  hotel,  simply  to  be  near 
Beethoven.     Believe  me,  it  is  very  difficult  to  get  a 


14  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

word  with  Beethoven ;  the  gentleman  seems  to  have 
whims  and  plenty  of  them.  I  made  six  efforts  the  first 
trial,  and  was  each  time  denied.  Now  I  rise  very 
early  in  the  morning  and  sit  till  late  in  the  evening, 
watching  at  my  window  to  see  when  Beethoven  goes 
abroad.  But  the  gentleman  appears  never  to  go 
abroad." 

"And  so  you  believe  that  Beethoven  has  been 
home  all  day  to-day,  too,  and  that  he  purposely  had 
me  refused  ?" 

"Certainly.  You  and  I,  both  of  us  have  been  re- 
fused. I  am  very  sore  over  it.  For  I  have  come 
hither,  not  to  see  Vienna,  but  Beethoven," 

This  was  very  disconsolate  information  for  me. 
Nevertheless,  I  tried  my  fortune  again  on  the  follow- 
ing day;  once  more  without  effect, — the  gates  of  heaven 
remained  closed  against  me. 

My  Englishman,  who  continued  to  watch  my  efforts 
from  his  window,  always  with  the  closest  attention, 
had  now  gotten  the  assurance,  from  inquiries  he  had 
made,  that  Beethoven  did  not  live  on  the  side  toward 
the  street.  He  was  very  much  irritated,  but  his  per- 
sistence never  flagged. 

For  my  part,  my  patience  was  soon  exhausted. 
For  I  had  far  more  urgent  reasons  to  feel  thus.  A 
week  had  gradually  passed  by  and  still  I  had  not  ac- 
complished my  design  ;  and  the  little  fortune  from  my 
galops  would  not  permit  of  a  very  long  stay  in  Vienna. 
Little  by  little  I  began  to  lose  hope. 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  1 5 

I  confided  my  sorrows  to  mine  host.  He  smiled 
and  promised  to  let  me  know  the  cause  of  my  ill  suc- 
cess, if  I  would  vow  not  to  tell  it  to  the  Englishman. 
Half  suspecting  now  what  had  been  my  evil  star,  I 
gave  him  the  promise  he  demanded. 

"Well,  you  see,"  mine  honest  host  then  said, 
"there  is  a  continual  stream  of  Englishmen  hither, 
who  wish  to  see  Beethoven  and  try  to  get  an  introduc- 
tion to  him.  He  is  so  irritated  by  it,  and  he  feels  such 
wrath  against  the  insistence  of  these  people,  that  he 
has  made  it  impossible  for  a  stranger  to  get  to  him. 
He  is  different  from  other  men  and  we  must  pardon 
him  for  this  course.  It  is  a  very  good  thing  for  my 
hotel,  however ;  for  the  house  is  usually  filled  with 
Englishmen,  who,  because  of  the  difficulty  of  gaining 
admittance  to  Beethoven,  are  compelled  to  be  my 
guests  for  a  much  longer  time  than  otherwise  would 
be  the  case.  But  since  you  have  promised  not  to 
frighten  these  good  people  away,  I  hope  to  find  a  way 
whereby  you  may  reach  Herr  Beethoven." 

This  was  edifying.  I  could  not  attain  my  object, 
then,  because,  poor  soul,  I  was  taken  for  an  English- 
man !  O,  my  premonition  was  right ;  that  English- 
man was  my  ruin  ! 

I  was  for  leaving  the  hotel  upon  the  instant.  For, 
no  doubt,  every  one  who  stopped  in  it  was  taken  for 
an  Englishman,  over  in  Beethoven's  house  ;  and  that 
alone  sufficed  to  put  me  under  the  ban.  Still,  the 
promise  of  the  inn-keeper,  that  he  would  provide  me 


l6  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

with  an  opportunity  to  see  and  speak  to  Beethoven, 
restrained  me. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Englishman — whom  I  now 
detested  from  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart — had  been 
trying  the  efficacy  of  all  kinds  of  intrigue  and  bribery; 
always,  however,  without  result. 

Thus  several  more  days  passed  fruitlessly  away, 
during  which  the  profits  of  my  galops  melted  visibly ; 
when  mine  host  whispered  in  confidence  to  me  that  I 
could  not  fail  of  seeing  Beethoven  if  I  betook  myself 
to  a  certain  beer-garden  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
frequent  at  a  particular  hour.  At  the  same  time  I  re- 
ceived from  my  adviser  some  infallible  notes  about  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  great  master,  by  which  I 
might  recognise  him. 

I  took  fresh  courage,  and  determined  not  to  delay 
my  good  fortune  a  day.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to 
meet  Beethoven  at  his  door,  so  I  had  found, — for  in 
going  out  he  always  left  his  house  by  a  rear  door.  So 
there  was  nothing  left  to  me  but  the  beer-garden. 
But,  unfortunately,  I  sought  the  master  there  in  vain, 
not  only  on  this  day,  but  on  the  next  two  following 
days  also.  Then,  on  the  fourth,  as  I  was  once  more 
directing  my  steps,  at  the  proper  hour,  to  the  fateful 
beer-garden,  I  became  to  my  utter  consternation  aware 
that  the  Englishman  was  dogging  my  steps,  cautiously 
and  suspiciously,  at  some  distance  behind  me.  The 
wretch,  always  on  the  lookout  from  his  window,  had 
not  allowed  it  to  escape  him  that  I  had  been  going 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  I7 

out  daily,  always  at  the  same  hour,  and  always  in  the 
same  direction.  This,  of  course,  struck  him  ;  and  at 
once  suspecting  that  I  had  run  upon  some  secret  path 
to  find  Beethoven,  he  had  instantly  determined  to  de- 
rive advantage  from  my  supposed  discovery. 

He  told  me  all  this  with  the  greatest  candor,  and 
declared,  in  the  same  breath,  that  he  intended  to  fol- 
low me  wherever  I  went.  In  vain  I  tried  to  deceive 
him  and  to  have  him  believe  that  it  was  merely  my 
intention  to  go  to  a  beer-garden  for  some  modest  re- 
freshment, much  too  unfashionable  a  place  for  a  gentle- 
man of  his  rank  to  care  for.  But  he  remained  firm 
in  his  determination,  and  there  was  nothing  left  me 
but  to  curse  my  luck.  Finally  I  tried  the  effect  of  in- 
civility, attempting  to  drive  him  off  with  a  gruff  rude- 
ness of  speech.  But  far  from  suffering  himself  to  be 
disconcerted  or  angered  by  it,  he  contented  himself 
with  a  soft  smile.  It  was  his  fixed  idea  to  see  Beet- 
hoven ;  he  was  indifferent  to  everything  else. 

And  really  this  day  it  was  to  happen  that  I  should 
see  the  great  Beethoven  for  the  first  time.  Nothing 
can  describe  my  complete  absorption,  but  at  the  same 
time  my  utter  wrath,  as,  sitting  at  the  side  of  the 
English  gentleman,  I  saw  the  man  approach  whose 
carriage  and  appearance  so  thoroughly  corresponded 
with  the  description  which  the  innkeeper  had  given 
me  of  the  master :  the  long,  blue,  great  coat,  the  con- 
fusion of  tangled  gray  hair,  and  furthermore  the  glance 
and  the  expression  of  countenance  as  they  had  long 


l8  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

been  accustomed  to  float  in  my  imagination,  after  a 
good  portrait  I  had  often  seen.  A  mistake  was  im- 
possible. I  recognised  him  on  the  instant.  With 
short,  rapid  steps  he  approached  and  passed  before 
us.  Awe  and  the  suddenness  of  the  surprise  enchained 
my  senses. 

The  Englishman  lost  none  of  my  motions.  He 
observed  the  new  arrival  curiously,  who,  retiring  into 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  garden  (at  this  hour  but 
little  frequented),  ordered  some  wine,  and  then  sat 
for  some  time  in  a  posture  of  thought.  My  loudly 
beating  heart  told  me  :  "It  is  he."  I  forgot  my  neigh- 
bor for  some  moments,  and  gazed,  with  a  greedy  eye, 
and  in  an  indescribable  state  of  emotion,  at  the  man 
whose  genius  had  ruled,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything 
else,  over  all  my  thoughts  and  feelings  ever  since  I 
had  learned  to  think  and  feel.  Involuntarily  I  began 
to  commune  with  myself  in  a  low  tone  of  voice  and 
fell  into  a  sort  of  monologue  which  closed  with  the 
words,  only  too  portentous  : 

"Beethoven,  it  is  you,  then,  whom  I  see  before 
me?" 

Nothing  escaped  my  unhallowed  neighbor,  who, 
inclined  closely  to  me,  his  breath  repressed,  had  over- 
heard my  whispers.  I  was  alarmed  from  my  profound 
ecstasy  by  the  words  : — 

"Yes!  this  gentleman  is  Beethoven!  Come,  let 
us  introduce  ourselves  at  once." 

Filled  both  with  anxiety  and  resentment,  I  clasped 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  I9 

the  accursed  Englishman  b\'  the  arm  and  restrained 
him. 

"What  is  it  you  are  about  to  do  ?"  I  cried.  "Do 
you  want  to  compromise  both  of  us  ?  Here  in  this 
place  ?  So  utterly  forgetful  of  all  propriety  ?  " 

"O,"  he  rejoined,  this  is  an  excellent  opportunity. 
We  shall  not  easily  find  a  better  one." 

Thereupon  he  drew  from  his  pocket  what  appeared 
to  be  a  manuscript  roll  of  music,  and  was  about  to 
march  directly  upon  the  man  in  the  blue  great-coat. 
Entirely  beside  myself,  I  grasped  the  reckless  man's 
coat-tails  and  shouted  impetuously  at  him  : — 

"Are  you  crazy  ?" 

This  occurrence,  brief  as  it  was,  had  sufficed  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  stranger.  He  seemed  to 
guess,  with  a  feeling  of  mortification,  that  he  was  the 
object  of  our  excitement,  and,  hastily  draining  his 
glass,  he  arose  to  leave.  Hardly  had  the  Englishman 
observed  the  action,  when  he  tore  himself  from  my 
grasp  with  such  force  as  to  leave  one  of  his  coat-tails 
in  my  extended  hand,  and  put  himself  in  Beethoven's 
way.  The  latter  sought  to  avoid  by  passing  round 
him.  But  the  good-for-nothing  anticipated  the  pur- 
pose, bowed  magnificently  before  him  after  the  form 
prescribed  by  the  latest  English  fashion,  and  addressed 
him  as  follows : — 

"I  have  the  honor  to  introduce  myself  to  the  very 
celebrated  composer,  the  most  honorable  Herr  Beet- 
hoven." 


20  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

He  had  no  need  to  add  more.  For  at  the  very  first 
words,  and  after  one  sharp  glance  at  myself,  Beet- 
hoven, wheeling  quickly  to  one  side,  disappeared  with 
the  quickness  of  a  flash  from  the  garden.  Nothing 
daunted,  however,  the  stolid  Briton  was  for  hastening 
after  him,  when  I,  in  my  furious  wrath,  could  not  re- 
frain from  laying  violent  hands  on  the  remaining  one 
of  his  coat-tails.  He  halted.  The  episode  had  in  a 
measure  astonished  him,  and  he  cried  out  in  a  queer 
tone  of  voice  : — 

"By  Jove!  This  gentleman  is  worthy  to  be  an 
Englishman  !  He  is  indeed  a  great  man,  and  I  shall 
not  fail  to  make  his  acquaintance  !" 

I  stood  as  one  petrified.  For  me  this  dreadful  ad- 
venture meant  the  destruction  of  all  hope  of  ever  see- 
ing my  heart's  dearest  wish  fulfilled. 

It  was  perfectly  clear  that  henceforth  every  effort 
to  approach  Beethoven  in  the  conventional  way  would 
be  fruitless.  In  view  of  the  state  of  my  finances,  now 
wholly  ruinous,  I  was  at  length  forced  to  make  up  my 
mind  whether  I  should  instantly  start  on  my  return 
homeward,  leaving  my  designs  unaccomplished,  or 
whether  in  the  hope  of  yet  accomplishing  them  I 
should  not  attempt  one  final,  desperate  step  more. 
I  shuddered  to  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul  as  I  con- 
templated the  former  alternative.  For  who  could, 
having  after  so  much  labor  approached  so  closely  to  the 
very  portals  of  the  holy  of  holies,  see  them  eternally 
closing  against  him,  without  being  utterly  prostrated  ? 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN,  21 

I  resolved,  therefore,  before  I  should  wholly  aban- 
don my  soul's  salvation,  to  try  yet  some  desperate 
step.  But  what  was  that  step?  What  course  should  I 
pursue?  For  a  long  time  I  could  think  of  nothing  that 
promised  success.  Alas,  my  whole  intellect  had  been 
lamed  !  Nothing  offered  itself  to  my  excited  phan- 
tasy, but  the  remembrance  of  what  I  had  been  com- 
pelled to  endure,  as  I  stood  there,  grasping  with  both 
my  hands  the  rended  coat-tail  of  the  unspeakable 
Englishman.  The  sharp  glance,  which  Beethoven  had 
thrown  askance  toward  my  unhappy  self  at  the  very 
moment  of  this  dread  catastrophe,  had  not  escaped 
me.  I  felt  only  too  keenly,  what  was  the  meaning  of 
that  glance, — it  had  forever  stamped  me  as  an  Eng- 
lishman ! 

What  should  be  my  course  to  undeceive  this  sus- 
picion of  the  master.  Everything  depended  upon  my 
succeeding  in  having  him  learn  that  I  was  but  a  sim- 
ple German  soul,  full  of  terrestrial  povert}',  but  celes- 
tial enthusiasm. 

I  decided,  finally,  to  pour  my  whole  heart  out, — to 
write.  This  happened.  I  wrote  ;  briefly  related  my 
life,  how  it  was  I  had  become  a  musician,  how  I  wor- 
shipped him,  how  it  was  my  humble  suit  to  make  his 
acquaintance,  how  I  had  sacrificed  two  whole  years 
acquiring  a  name  as  a  galop-composer,  how  I  had  en- 
tered upon  and  completed  my  pilgrimage,  what  mis- 
fortunes the  Englishman  had  brought  upon  me,  and 
how  pitiful  my  present  condition  was. 


22  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

And  perceptibly  feeling  my  heart  grow  lighter  as 
I  thus  proceeded  with  the  recital  of  my  woes,  the  keen 
enjoyment  of  this  feeling  insensibly  led  me  to  adopt  a 
style  of  respectful  familiarity.  I  wove  into  the  letter 
some  very  candid  and  rather  forcible  expressions  of 
reproof  against  the  unjust  severity  with  which  the 
master  had  seen  fit  to  treat  my  poor  self.  I  was  vir- 
tually in  an  inspired  state  as  at  length  I  finished  the 
letter.  My  eyes  fairly  swam  as  I  wrote  the  address  : 
"To  Herr  Ludwig  von  Beethoven."  Then  I  breathed 
a  heartfelt  silent  prayer,  and  myself  delivered  the 
letter  at  Beethoven's  house. 

As  I  was  returning  to  the  hotel,  wrapt  in  my  en- 
thusiasm,—  heavens!  who  was  it,  at  this  juncture, 
too,  thrust  that  fearful  Englishman  upon  my  vision  ! 
From  his  window  he  had  seen  this  latest  of  my  jour- 
neys, also.  He  read  at  once  the  joy  with  which  hope 
had  made  my  face  radiant :  that  was  enough  to  sub- 
ject me  to  his  spell  again.  Surely  enough,  he  stopped 
me  in  the  stairway  with  the  inquiry: 

"What  hopes?  Good?  When  shall  we  see  Beet- 
hoven ?" 

"Never  !  Never  !"  I  cried  in  desperation.  "You, 
— Beethoven  wishes  never  to  see  you  again.  Leave 
me,  miserable  sir!     We  have  nothing  in  common." 

"Yes,  indeed,  we  have  something  in  common,"  he 
replied,  unmoved.  "Where  is  my  coat-tail,  sir?  Who 
authorised  you  to  deprive  me  of  it  violently,  as  you 
did?     Are  you  not  aware  that  you  are  to  blame  that 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  23 

Beethoven  conducted  himself  toward  me  as  he  did? 
How  could  he,  with  any  propriety,  permit  himself  to 
form  the  acquaintance  of  a  gentleman  with  but  one 
coat-tail?" 

I  was  exasperated  at  having  this  blame  loaded  upon 
my  shoulders. 

"Sir!"  I  shouted,  "You  shall  have  back  your 
coat-tail  !  I  trust  you  will  preserve  it,  with  feelings 
of  shame,  as  a  memento  of  how  you  mortally  offended 
the  great  Beethoven  and  plunged  a  poor  musician 
into  ruin.  Farewell  !  and  may  we  never  see  each 
other  again  !  " 

He  sought  to  detain  and  calm  me,  assuring  me 
that  he  still  possessed  a  great  number  of  coats  in  the 
very  best  condition.  Only,  I  should  let  him  know 
when  Beethoven  would  receive  us.  Past  all  restraint, 
however,  I  stormed  violently  aloft  to  my  fifth  story. 
There  I  locked  myself  in  and  awaited  Beethoven's 
answer. 

How  shall  I  describe  what  transpired  within  me, 
about  me,  when,  really,  within  an  hour  or  so,  I  re- 
ceived a  small  bit  of  note-paper  upon  which  was  writ- 
ten in  a  hasty  hand  : 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  R.,  if  I  request  that  you  will 
defer  your  call  until  to-morrow  morning.  I  am  busily 
engaged  to-day  in  getting  a  packet  of  musical  work 
ready  for  the  next  post.  I  shall  look  for  you  to-mor- 
row.    Beethoven." 

First,  I  sank  upon  my  knees  and  thanked  Heaven 


24  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

for  this  extraordinary  mark  of  favor  ;  my  eyes  were 
dim  with  the  most  devoutly  grateful  tears.  Then,  at 
length,  my  feelings  burst  forth  in  the  wildest  demon- 
strations of  joy,  and  I  danced  about  in  my  little  room 
like  one  bereft  of  reason.  I  do  not  recall  what  I  was 
dancing,  only  that — to  my  utter  shame — I  became  sud- 
denly conscious  of  whistling  one  of  my  own  galops  as 
an  accompaniment.  This  mortifying  discovery  brought 
me  to  my  senses.  I  forsook  my  little  chamber  and 
the  hotel.  Intoxicated  with  joy,  I  ran  out  into  the 
streets  of  Vienna. 

Wondrous  Providence  !  My  woes  had  caused  me 
entirely  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  I  was  in  Vienna. 
But  now,  how  the  cheery  bustle  and  activity  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  imperial  city  delighted  me !  Being 
in  a  state  of  enthusiasm,  I  saw  everything  through 
the  enthusiast's  eye.  The  rather  shallow  sensualism 
of  the  Viennese  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  impulsive 
outbursts  of  ardent  natures.  Their  light-hearted,  not 
too  discriminating  lust  of  pleasure,  I  thought  a  spon- 
taneous and  candid  responsiveness  to  all  that  is  beauti- 
ful. I  scanned  the  five  daily  announcements  of  the 
theatres.  Lo  !  on  one  of  them  I  read:  ^^  Fidelia,  An 
Opera  by  Beethoven." 

I  at  once  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  this  theatre, 
no  matter  to  what  appalling  extent  the  profits  of  my 
galops  had  melted  away.  When  I  got  to  the  cheap 
standing-room  for  which  I  could  pay,  the  overture 
was  just  beginning.     The  opera  was  a  revision  of  the 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  25 

earlier  one,  which,  under  the  title  of  "Leonore"  had 
met  with  failure,  much,  I  must  say,  to  the  credit  of 
the  profound  and  discriminating  Viennese  public.  I 
had  never  seen  a  performance  of  the  work  in  the  form 
of  "Leonore";  my  great  delight  may  therefore  be 
imagined  as  I  now  beheld  the  magnificent  new  opera 
at  its  initial  appearance.  It  was  a  very  young  girl 
that  rendered  the  Leonore ;  but  despite  her  extreme 
youth,  the  songstress  seemed  already  to  have  become 
firmly  wedded  to  the  genius  of  Beethoven.  With  what 
glowing  ardor,  what  poetry  of  feeling,  what  impres- 
sive effect  she  portrayed  this  extraordinary  woman  ! 
Her  name  was  Wilhelmine  Schroeder.  She  it  is  who 
earned  the  high  renown  of  having  revealed  the  depths 
of  Beethoven's  work  to  the  German  public.  Indeed, 
on  this  evening  I  saw  her  performance  carry  away 
even  the  superficial  Viennese  in  a  rapture  of  enthusi- 
asm. As  for  me,  heaven  itself  seemed  to  open.  I  was 
in  a  glory  and  worshipped  that  genius,  which — like 
Floristan — had  led  me  forth  from  night  to  light,  from 
fetters  to  freedom. 

I  could  not  sleep  that  night.  The  recollection  of 
what  I  had  just  experienced,  and  the  contemplation 
of  what  awaited  me  on  the  morrow, — it  was  all  too 
great  and  overwhelming  to  translate  peacefully  into 
the  domain  of  dreams.  I  remained  awake,  revelling 
in  anticipations  and  schooling  myself  for  my  appear- 
ance before  Beethoven. 

The  momentous  day  on  which  I  expected  to  meet 


2  b  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

Beethoven  at  last  dawned.  I  waited  impatiently  for 
the  proper  hour  for  a  morning  call.  It  tolled  at  length 
and  I  went  forth.  The  event  of  my  life  was  about  to 
happen.  The  thought  of  it  made  me  quiver  to  my  in- 
most being. 

But  I  had  a  fearful  ordeal  yet  to  endure. 

Sauntering  at  the  door  of  Beethoven's  house,  my 
evil  spirit  coolly  awaited  me, — the  Englishman  !  The 
wretch  had  been  sowing  his  bribes  right  and  left,  and 
had  at  last  corrupted  even  the  host  of  our  hotel.  The 
latter  had  read  Beethoven's  unsealed  lines  to  me,  ere 
I  had  read  them  myself,  and  he  had  betrayed  the  con- 
tents to  the  Briton. 

At  the  very  sight  of  him,  a  cold  perspiration  started 
from  all  my  pores.  My  poetic  feeling  vanished  ;  the 
divine  flame  was  quenched  on  the  instant.  Once  more 
I  was  in  his  power. 

"Come  on  !"  thus  the  miserable  man  saluted  me. 
"  Let  us  introduce  ourselves  to  Beethoven  !  " 

I  was  first  for  throwing  him  off  by  recourse  to  a 
lie,  pretending  that  I  was  not  on  my  way  to  Beet- 
hoven at  all.  But  he  quickly  cut  off  every  such  avenue 
of  escape.  With  the  utmost  candor  he  acquainted  me 
with  the  manner  in  which  he  had  gotten  possession  of 
my  secret,  and  affirmed  that  he  would  not  again  leave 
me  until  we  both  came  away  from  Beethoven  together. 
Then  I  endeavored  to  have  him  relinquish  his  inten- 
tions ;  first  by  kindly  remonstrance, — in  vain  !  Then 
I  worked  myself  into  a  passion, — in  vain  !     Finally, 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  27 

thinking  to  avoid  him  by  fleetness  of  foot,  I  sped  by 
him  like  an  arrovir,  up  the  long  stairway,  and  pulled 
like  a  madman  at  the  door-bell.  Ere  the  door  was 
opened,  the  gentleman  was  again  upon  me,  grasped 
the  tails  of  my  coat  and  cried  : 

"Don't  attempt  to  run  away  from  me.  I  have  a 
claim  upon  your  coat-tails  and  I  shall  maintain  my 
hold  on  them  till  we  are  face  to  face  with  Beethoven." 

I  turned  indignantly  about,  attempting  to  release 
myself  from  his  grasp.  Indeed,  I  even  felt  tempted 
to  protect  my  person  against  the  proud  son  of  Brit- 
annia with  acts  of  bodily  violence.  But  the  door  just 
then  opened.  An  old  housekeeper  appeared  ;  her  vis- 
age grew  dark  as  she  perceived  us  in  our  strange  atti- 
tude, and  she  made  a  hasty  motion  as  if  to  close  the 
door  upon  us.  In  my  great  anxiety  I  shouted  my 
name  loudly,  and  protested  that  I  had  come  upon  the 
invitation  of  Herr  Beethoven. 

The  old  dame  was  still  wavering,  for  the  English- 
man's appearance  seemed  to  her  to  justify  quite  a  deal 
of  doubt,  when  suddenly  Beethoven  himself  appeared 
at  the  door  of  his  cabinet.  Taking  advantage  of  the 
moment,  I  stepped  quickly  within,  advancing  toward 
the  master  with  the  intention  of  excusing  myself.  But 
in  doing  so,  I  pulled  the  Englishman  along  with  me, 
for  he  still  obstinately  clung  to  me.  He  carried  out 
his  purpose  and  released  his  hold  of  me  only  when 
we  stood  face  to  face  with  Beethoven.  I  made  a  low 
bow   and   stammered   forth   my  name.     Although   he 


28  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

very  probably  did  not  hear  it,  still  he  seemed  to  know 
that  I  was  the  one  who  had  written  to  him.  He  bade 
me  enter  his  apartments.  And  without  paying  the 
least  attention  to  Beethoven's  look  of  amazement,  my 
companion  slipped  stealthily  in  after  me. 

Here  I  was, — within  the  inmost  holy  place.  But 
the  horrible  embarrassment  into  which  the  incorrigi- 
ble Briton  had  thrown  me,  robbed  me  of  all  the  calm- 
ness and  self-collection  which  I  had  need  of  to  enjoy 
my  good  fortune  in  a  worthy  manner.  And  Beet- 
hoven's exterior,  too,  was  by  no  means  of  a  kind  to 
impress  one  agreeably  or  to  put  one  altogether  at  ease. 
His  dress — for  wear  within  doors — was  quite  untidy. 
He  wore  a  red  flannel  cloth  girt  about  his  body.  His 
long,  coarse  gray  hair  fell  unkempt  about  his  head. 
And  his  grim  inamicable  countenance  was  by  no  means 
calculated  to  put  an  end  to  the  embarrassment  I  felt. 
We  took  seats  at  a  table  covered  with  papers  and 
quills. 

Some  moments  of  uncomfortable  silence  ensued. 
Neither  of  us  spoke.  Beethoven  was  plainly  displeased 
at  having  received  two  persons  instead  of  one. 

At  length,  he  broke  the  silence,  asking  me,  in  a 
voice  that  was  grating  and  harsh  : 

"Are  you  from  L  .  .  .  .  ?  " 

I  was  about  to  answer  him,  but  he  interrupted  me, 
pushing  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil  toward  me,  and 
adding  : 

"Write  !     I  do  not  hear  !" 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  2g 

I  knew  of  Beethoven's  deafness  and  had  prepared 
myself  for  it.  Still  it  was  like  a  stab  through  the  heart 
to  hear  it  in  that  harsh  and  broken  voice  of  his,  "  I  do 
not  hear."  To  be  solitary  in  the  world,  to  live  with- 
out joys  and  be  poor,  to  know  of  no  other  escape  from 
such  a  sordid  life  than  that  of  the  wondrous  power  of 
tones,  and  yet  to  have  to  say,  "  I  do  not  hear  !  "  In- 
stantly I  understood  completely  the  external  appear- 
ance of  Beethoven,  the  wretchedness  so  deeply  graven 
in  his  cheeks,  the  gloomy  vindictiveness  in  his  glance, 
the  taciturn  defiance  on  his  lips :  he  did  not  hear] 

Confused  and  hardly  knowing  what  I  wrote,  I  wrote 
down  an  entreaty  for  his  pardon,  together  with  a  short 
explanation  of  the  circumstances  which  had  led  to  my 
coming  in  the  company  of  the  Englishman.  The  lat- 
ter, in  the  meantime,  had  been  sitting  mute  and  con- 
tented, opposite  Beethoven,  who,  after  reading  my 
lines,  turned  with  considerable  asperity  upon  him,  de- 
manding what  he  wished. 

"I  have  the  honor — "  the  Briton  was  beginning. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  exclaimed  Beethoven 
quickly  interrupting  him.  '*  I  do  not  hear,  and  I  speak 
with  some  difficulty,  too.  Write  down  what  you  wish 
of  me." 

The  Englishman  reflected  a  moment,  finally  drew 
a  delicate,  pretty  little  piece  of  musical  manuscript 
from  his  pocket,  and  said  to  me  : 

"It  is  well.  Write,  I  beg  Herr  Beethoven  to  scan 
over  my  composition.     Wherever  he  finds  a  place  in 


30  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

it  which  does  not  please  him,  he  will  have  the  kind- 
ness to  mark  it  with  a  cross." 

I  wrote  down  his  request,  word  for  word,  in  the 
hope  that  thus  I  might  get  rid  of  him.  And  so  it  hap- 
pened. Beethoven,  when  he  had  read  the  request, 
laid  the  Englishman's  composition  upon  the  table, 
smiling  grimly  the  while ;  then  nodded  and  said  : 

"I  shall  send  it." 

My  foreign  gentleman  was  very  well  content  with 
that.  He  arose,  performed  a  most  particularly  splendid 
and  formal  bow  and  took  his  leave.  I  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief, — he  was  gone  ! 

Now,  indeed,  I  felt  that  I  was  within  the  sanctu- 
ary. Even  Beethoven's  lineaments  visibly  brightened. 
He  gazed  calmly  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  began : 

"  I  suppose  the  Briton  has  caused  you  a  great  deal 
of  annoyance  ?  Let  us  offer  solace  to  each  other. 
Long  ago,  these  touring  Englishmen  succeeded  in  tor- 
menting me  to  the  quick.  They  come  to-day  to  see  a 
poor  musician,  just  as  to-morrow  they  will  flock  to 
stare  at  some  rare  animal.  I  am  very  sorry,  indeed, 
to  have  mistaken  you  for  one  of  them.  You  wrote 
that  you  take  pleasure  in  my  compositions.  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  hear  it.  For  I  no  longer  care  much 
whether  my  works  please  the  crowd  or  not." 

This  familiarity  of  address  soon  dispelled  the  em- 
barrassment which  oppressed  me.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  joy 
at  hearing  these  simple  words.  I  wrote  that  surely  I 
was  not  the  only  one  who  was  filled  with  ardent  en- 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  3 1 

thusiasm  for  every  one  of  his  creations.  That,  for  in- 
stance, I  desired  nothing  more  keenly  than  that  I 
might  secure  for  my  native  city  the  good  fortune  of 
some  day  seeing  him  visit  it ;  and  that  he  would  then  be 
very  quickly  convinced  what  a  powerful  impression 
upon  the  whole  public  his  works  had  made  there. 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  believe,"  replied  Beet- 
hoven, "that  my  compositions  find  a  more  ready  wel- 
come in  Northern  Germany  than  they  do  here.  I 
often  lose  patience  with  the  people  of  Vienna.  They 
listen  daily  to  too  much  poor  stuff  to  be  in  the  humor 
— for  any  considerable  length  of  time — to  take  up  se- 
rious work  in  a  serious  manner." 

I  felt  like  contradicting  this  assertion  and  told  him 
that  I  had  been  at  the  performance  of  "  Fidelio,"  the 
evening  before,  and  how  the  Vienna  public  had  re- 
ceived the  opera  with  the  most  evident  enthusiasm. 

"Hm!  Hm!"  muttered  the  master.  "The  'Fi- 
delio ! '  And  yet  I  know  that  these  folk  are  now  clap- 
ping their  hands  out  of  sheer  vanity.  They  are  pos- 
sessed of  the  notion  that,  in  revising  this  opera,  I 
have  followed  their  counsel  only.  They  wish  to  re- 
ward me  for  the  trouble  I  have  been  to,  and  so  cry, 
'Bravo!'  They  are  a  good-natured  people,  though 
not  overschooled.  That  is  why  I  prefer  to  live  among 
them  rather  than  among  people  who  are  scholarly. 
Does  the  '  Fidelio  '  please  you  in  its  present  form  ?  " 

I  gave  him  an  account  of  the  impressions  which 
the  performance  had  made  upon  me,    and  remarked 


32  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

that  I  thought  the  changes  and  additions  had  magnifi- 
cently improved  the  work. 

"A  most  disagreeable  kind  of  labor!"  rejoined 
Beethoven.  "  I  am  no  composer  of  operas.  At  least, 
I  know  of  no  theatre  in  the  world  for  which  I  should 
willingly  write  another  opera.  If  I  were  to  compose 
an  opera  after  my  own  taste  and  views,  people  would 
run  away  from  it.  There  would  be  no  arias,  duets, 
trios,  nor  any  similar  stuff  in  it,  with  which  they  patch 
operas  together  now-a-da}'s.  And  that  which  I  should 
put  in  their  stead  no  singer  would  consent  to  sing,  no 
public  be  willing  to  hear.  They  all  know  nothing  bet- 
ter than  the  glittering  falsehood,  brilliant  nonsense, 
sweet-coated  ennui.  He  who  were  to  attempt  a  true 
musical  drama  would  be  looked  upon  as  a  fool.  He 
would,  in  fact,  be  a  fool,  if,  after  composing  such  a 
drama,  he  did  not  jealously  keep  it  a  secret,  but 
sought  to  bring  it  before  the  people." 

"And  how  would  he  have  to  proceed?"  I  asked, 
"to  create  such  a  musical  drama." 

"As  Shakespeare  did  when  he  wrote  his  pieces," 
was  the  almost  impetuous  answer.  Then,  more  self- 
contained,  he  continued:  "When  one  is  compelled 
to  make  it  the  main  object  to  bedeck  women,  who 
have  passable  voices,  with  all  kinds  of  gaudy  tinsel, 
with  which  to  obtain  the  bravos  and  the  applause  of 
clapping  hands,  he  ought  to  turn  a  Parisian  modiste, 
rather  than  go  on  as  a  dramatic  composer.  I,  for  my 
part,  am  not  cut  out  for  such  buffoonery.    I  know  that. 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  33 

on  this  account,  the  smart  people  think  that,  while  I 
may  know  something  about  instrumental  music,  I 
shall  never  be  at  home  in  the  composition  of  vocal 
music.  And  they  are  right,  since  they  mean  by  vocal 
music  operatic  music  only.  And  may  heaven  preserve 
me  from  ever  feeling  at  home  in  composing  such  non- 
sense." 

I  took  the  liberty,  here,  of  asking  him  if  he  really 
believed  that  any  one  who  had  once  heard  his  "Ade- 
laide" would  venture  to  deny  to  him  a  most  splendid 
capacity  for  vocal  music,  too. 

"Well,"  he  replied  after  a  short  pause,  "  the  'Ade- 
laide' and  similar  pieces  may,  perhaps,  be  looked  upon 
as  trifles  which  are  always  opportune  to  the  profes- 
sional virtuosi,  offering  them  the  means  they  long  for 
to  display  their  excellent  training  and  art.  But  why 
should  not  vocal  music  form  a  great  and  serious  class 
of  music  apart,  as  well  as  instrumental  music  ?  Such, 
that  we  might  demand  as  much  respect  for  it  from  the 
careless  singing  folk  as,  for  instance,  is  exacted  of  an 
orchestra  in  rendering  a  symphony.  The  human  voice 
is  an  irrepressible  fact.  Moreover,  it  is  a  far  more 
beautiful  and  noble  medium  of  tone  than  any  instru- 
ment of  the  orchestra.  Then  why  may  we  not  employ 
it  with  the  same  independence  with  which  we  do  the 
orchestra  ?  Think  what  new  effects  we  might  secure 
by  such  a  procedure.  For  the  special  character  of  the 
human  voice,  because  it  is  so  wholly  different  from 
the  peculiar  qiialities  of  the  instruments,   could  very 


^\ 


34  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

readily  be  rendered  prominent  and  easily  followed, 
and  would  thus  permit  of  producing  the  most  manifold 
combinations.  The  instruments  are,  as  it  were,  the 
representatives  of  the  primal  media  of  the  tones  of 
creation  and  nature.  That  which  they  express  can 
never  be  clearly  defined  or  fixed  ;  for  they  reproduce 
the  very  pr  mal  emotions  themselves,  just  as  they 
were  born  in  the  chaos  of  the  first  creation,  when, 
perhaps,  no  such  thing  as  a  human  being  existed  who 
could  receive  and  give  them  an  abiding  place  within 
his  heart.  The  genius  of  the  human  voice  is  of  an  en- 
tirely different  character.  The  human  voice  is  the 
representative  of  the  human  heart  and  its  sequestered, 
individual  feeling.  Its  character  is  consequently  lim- 
ited, but  at  the  same  time  definite  and  clear.  Bring 
these  two  elemental  classes  together,  now,  and  com- 
bine them  !  To  the  unrestrained  primal  emotions  of 
nature,  soaring  away  into  the  infinite  (representing 
them  by  the  instruments,)  oppose  the  clear  and  deter- 
minate emotion  of  the  human  heart  (representing  it  by 
the  human  voice).  The  presence  of  this  latter  ele- 
ment would  have  a  benign  and  pacificatory  effect  upon 
the  war  of  what  I  have  styled  nature's  primal  emotions; 
would  give  to  their  various  and  uncertain  streams  a 
fixed  and  united  course.  And,  on  its  own  side,  in  be- 
coming receptive  of  these  primal  emotions  of  nature, 
the  human  heart,  immeasurably  strengthened  and  ex- 
panded, would  become  capable  of  perceiving  clearly 
within  itself  the  supreme, — theretofore  felt  but  as  an 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  35 

uncertain  instinct,  but  now  transformed  into  a  divine 
consciousness." 

Here  Beethoven  discontinued  for  a  few  moments, 
as  though  exhausted.  Then  he  proceeded,  sighing 
gently  : — 

"  Of  course,  in  attempting  to  solve  this  problem, 
we  encounter  many  difficulties.  To  render  expression 
in  song,  words  are  necessary.  But  who  would  be  cap- 
able of  expressing,  in  words,  a  poetry  which  is  founded 
on  such  a  union  of  all  elements  ?  The  poet's  art  must 
retire  before  such  a  task  :  words  are  too  weakly  media 
for  its  performance. — You  will,  sir,  soon  see  a  new 
composition  of  mine,  which  will  remind  you  of  what 
I  have  just  been  saying.  It  is  a  symphony  with  chor- 
uses. I  call  your  attention  to  the  difficulty  I  met  while 
composing  it,  in  the  effort  to  surmount  the  obstacle 
caused  by  the  inadequacy  of  poetry  when  I  sought  its 
aid.  I  finally  decided  to  use  Schiller's  beautiful  hymn. 
An  die  Freude.  This  is,  indeed,  a  noble  and  exalted 
poem,  although  it  falls  far  short  of  expressing  that  to 
which,  in  this  case,  it  is  true,  no  verses  in  the  world 
can  give  adequate  expression." 

To  this  very  day  I  can  hardly  comprehend  all  the 
joy  I  felt  as  Beethoven  thus  himself  assisted  me,  with 
these  brief  hints,  to  the  thorough  understanding  of  his 
titanic  last  symphony  which  was  then,  at  most,  but 
just  finished,  but  as  yet  known  to  no  one.  I  expressed 
my  warmest  gratitude  for  this  surely  most  unusual 
condescension ;  giving  utterance  at  the  same  time  to 


36  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

the  delight  which  his  information  afforded  me  that 
another  great  work  of  his  might  soon  be  expected. 
The  tears  had  started  to  my  eyes.  I  could  have  knelt 
before  him. 

Beethoven  seemed  to  note  my  deep  emotion.  He 
looked  at  me,  smiling  half  sadly,  half  mockingly,  as 
he  said  : 

"You  can  defend  me  when  the  discussion  of  my 
new  work  arises.  Remember  what  I  say :  the  wise 
folk  will  deem  me  mad,  or  at  least  hoot  at  me  as  such. 
But  you  see,  Mr.  R ,  that  I  am  not  exactly  a  mad- 
man yet,  although  in  other  respects  I  am  unfortunate 
enough  to  be  one. — People  demand  that  I  shall  write 
as  they  imagine  it  is  beautiful  and  good ;  they  do  not 
consider  that  I,  poor  deaf  wretch,  must  necessarily 
have  peculiar  ideas  of  my  own, — that  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  compose  otherwise  than  as  I  feel.  And  that 
I  cannot  think  their  beautiful  thoughts  nor  feel  their 
nice  feelings,"  he  added  ironically,  "that  is  just  my 
misfortune  ! " 

With  that  he  arose,  and  with  short,  rapid  steps 
strode  up  and  down  the  room.  Deeply  moved  to  my 
inmost  being  as  I  was,  I,  too,  arose ;  I  felt  that  I  was 
trembling.  Impossible  it  would  have  been  for  me  to 
have  continued  the  conversation,  either  in  pantomime 
or  in  writing.  I  became  conscious  that  now  the  mom- 
ent had  come  when  my  visit,  if  protracted,  might 
weary  the  master.  To  write  it  down  seemed  to  me  too 
vapid  a  manner  of  expressing  my  thanks  and  saying 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  37 

farewell.  I  contented  myself  with  reaching  for  my 
hat,  stepping  before  Beethoven,  and  letting  him  read 
in  my  glance  what  was  passing  within  me. 

He  seemed  to  understand  me. 

"You  are  going  ?"  he  asked.  "Shall  you  remain 
any  length  of  time  in  Vienna  ?" 

I  wrote  for  him  to  read  that  I  had  no  other  purpose 
in  making  this  journey  than  to  become  acquainted 
with  him  ;  that  since  he  had  honored  me  by  according 
me  such  an  unusual  reception,  I  was  beyond  measure 
happy  to  view  my  object  as  accomplished,  and  should 
on  the  morrow  begin  my  journey  homeward. 

He  rejoined,  with  a  smile:  "In  your  letter  you 
told  me  in  what  way  you  created  the  funds  for  this 
journey.  You  ought  to  remain  at  Vienna  and  continue 
your  composition  of  galops.  This  class  of  music  is 
highly  esteemed  here." 

I  declared  that  I  was  done  with  it  for  good ;  that 
I  knew  of  nothing  which  could  ever  again  appear 
worth  the  sacrifice. 

"Well,  well!"  he  rejoined,  "time  will  tell.  I,  too, 
old  simpleton  that  I  am,  would  be  better  off  if  I  com- 
posed galops.  If  I  go  on  as  I  have  been  I  shall  always 
more  or  less  be  in  want.  A  happy  journey  !"  he  con- 
tinued. "Remember  me,  and  in  all  the  hardships  you 
may  encounter,  console  yourself  with  me." 

Agitated  and  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  I  was  about 
to  take  my  leave,  when  he   suddenly  called   to   me : 


38  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

"  Hold  !  let  us  finish  off  the  musical  Englishman  first ! 
Let  us  see  where  the  crosses  shall  come  !" 

He  seized  the  Briton's  manuscript,  scanned  it 
hastily  over,  smiling  the  while.  Then  he  carefully 
gathered  it  together  again,  rolled  it  up  in  a  sheet  of 
paper,  grasped  a  coarse  pen,  and  drew  a  colossal  cross 
over  the  whole  wrapping.  Then  he  handed  it  to  me, 
with  the  words  : — 

"There  !  kindly  hand  the  lucky  fellow  his  master- 
piece !  He  is  an  ass,  and  yet  I  envy  him  his  long 
ears  ! — Farewell,  dear  sir,  and  keep  me  in  kind  re- 
membrance !" 

Then  he  let  me  go.      I  was  overcome  as  I  left  the 

room  and  the  house. 

* 
*  * 

In  the  hotel,  I  came  across  the  Englishman's  serv- 
ing man  packing  away  his  master's  trunks  in  the  trav- 
elling coach.  Evidently  his  object  had  been  attained, 
too  ;  I  was  forced  to  admit  that  he  also  had  shown 
pertinacity.  I  hurried  to  my  room  and  likewise  got 
ready  to  begin  my  return  journey  afoot,  with  the  dawn 
of  the  coming  day.  I  laughed  aloud  as  I  gazed  at  the 
cross  upon  the  wrapping  round  the  Englishman's  com- 
position. And  yet  this  cross  was  a  souvenir  of  Beet- 
hoven, and  I  was  loth  that  the  evil  spirit  of  my  pil- 
grimage should  possess  it.  I  came  to  a  quick  decision, 
I  took  the  wrapping  off,  brought  out  my  galops  and 
hid  them  away  in  this  damning  cover.  I  had  the  Eng- 
lishman's composition  taken  to  him  without  any  cover, 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  BEETHOVEN.  39 

and  accompanied  it  with  a  note  in  which  I  informed 
him  that  Beethoven  had  envied  him  and  had  affirmed 
he  knew  not  a  single  spot  at  which  to  make  a  cross. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  hotel,  I  saw  my  quondam 
companion  getting  into  his  wagon. 

"Farewell!"  he  called  tome.  "You  have  done 
me  a  great  service.  I  am  very  glad  to  have  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Mr.  Beethoven. — Would  you  like  to 
go  with  me  to  Italy  ?" 

"What  are  you  looking  for  there?"  I  asked  in 
reply. 

"I  want  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Rossini. 
For  he  is  a  very  celebrated  composer." 

"Good  luck  ! "  I  cried.  "I  know  Beethoven.  That 
is  enough  for  me  so  long  as  I  live  !" 

We  separated.  I  threw  yet  one  yearning  glance  at 
Beethoven's  house  and  journeyed  toward  the  North, 
in  my  heart  exalted  and  ennobled. 


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